George is still crying, stretching out his hands to me. I don’t know what to do. I take his hand, just one of them. It’s very fat and hot. He holds mine very tight. His fingers really hurt me. I smile, to show they don’t. His tears are falling on my dress, making shiny stains. The maid will say I’ve ruined it, shout again, slam doors.
“Don’t cry,” I say.
He cries.
I’d like to make a cup of tea. It’s not allowed and it isn’t tea-time yet. I rummage in my bag. I might disturb a fruit drop at the bottom. George likes sweets, all kinds.
I find a picture postcard with the Gold Rush on the front and lots of coloured lights. On the back there’s just one line in pencil. “We’ve arrived.” The writing’s very wobbly. I can’t read the name at all. I don’t know who arrived or where they slept. The Gold Rush has closed down. It’s probably just a hole now, a big hole in the ground. You can’t sleep in a hole.
I still can’t find a sweet. The lining of the bag’s torn, so I poke my fingers through and feel all round. There’s something there. A pill bottle which rattles when I shake it. It doesn’t sound like pills.
“MARY’ S RING,” it says. I don’t know any Marys. There were three once in the ward, but they all died long ago. Maybe it’s Maria’s and that’s why she’s so angry: I stole her ring.
I didn’t. She doesn’t wear a ring. Perhaps I know a Mary, but she’s gone. People never stay long. Perhaps she sent that card.
I tip the other things out. Lots and lots of things. I saved all Carole’s matchboxes and the stones from Bernie’s dates, and some beetles from Death Valley which have died and lost their wings. I also find an Oxo cube and an empty powder compact which Nurse Sullivan threw out, and the two cartons of confetti I bought for Carole’s wedding.
“Look, George,” I say. “Confetti.”
I open up the boxes, shake some in his hand. His mouth is open. He tries to stuff it in.
“No,” I say. “Not sweeties.”
He’s smiling now and pointing. I think he likes the colours. I like them too, like the different shapes. There are little bows, and flowers, and wedding bells, and stars, and silver slippers. And horseshoes, lucky horseshoes, lots of them. I make a row of horseshoes, pink and blue, spread out on my lap, the open ends on top. That’s the right way up for horseshoes, otherwise the luck falls out. Miss O’Toole said.
George chuckles with no noise, tries to grab them.
“Mustn’t touch,” I say.
The confetti is so light, my breath makes it tremble when I talk. It wants to fly away. I wish we could fly with it. Both of us. I tip more out on my dress: yellow flowers, red hearts. I wouldn’t be a horsehoe or a heart. I’d be a star. A star called Pegasus.
“What would you be, George?”
He doesn’t answer, but I think he’d be a bell. He could ring then, all the time, make a noise. I put my earplugs in again, so I can hear the bells instead of just the silence. There’s wedding music, too. Carole’s wedding.
I unzip my bag again. I’d better find the hairslide. It’s still alive, purple wings throbbing in my hand. George snatches.
“No. Give it back,” I say. “That’s Carole’s slide, her wedding slide.”
I have to tug quite hard to get it from his fingers. He starts to cry again. I take my earplugs out to hear, but there isn’t any noise. Silent crying’s sadder than the normal kind.
“All right,” I say. “You borrow it. I’ll put it in your hair.”
I lean across. His hair is very fine, silky like a child’s. It’s hard to keep the slide in. It keeps slipping out, undoing. At last, I snap it shut, though it falls again, hangs low above one eye. His hair is mousy-pale, so the slide looks very bright. I show him in my little handbag mirror, hold it steady for him. He smiles. The smile gets slowly bigger until it fills the mirror. I think he’d like to laugh, but the noise is stuck inside him. He keeps pointing at himself, rocking to and fro, making laughing movements with his mouth.
I put my earplugs back. I can hear him laughing now, hear the bells again. I’m not frightened any more. He won’t rape me. He’s like an angel, doesn’t have those men’s bits, only wings. His wings are pink and purple, lifting off.
I pass him one box of the confetti. He opens it, starts to throw it everywhere. It’s flying. The hearts are coloured kites kicking at the wind. The bows are little planes with shining wings. The silver horseshoes belong to flying horses. The stars are shooting stars.
Everything is flying – horses jumping stars; kites and petals bobbing in the sky. Pink and blue and yellow are spinning past my eyes. Silver pours like rain. Red is galloping.
I’m grey and left behind. Too solid, far too clumsy. I reach across, clutch my bridegroom’s hand. He’ll help me. His huge angel’s wings are spreading out, unfolding.
“Fly,” I beg him. “Fly. And take me with you.”
Chapter Twenty Five
I need another order form. There’s no room on this one. I’ve ordered eighteen items for Norah, all with her name on, or initials. She loves her name on things. I’ve chosen a set of squirrel bookplates (“From Norah Toomey’s Library”), a pie dish (“Pies by Norah”), a Rolls Royce car-plaque (“Custom-built for Toomey”), a shamrock butter cooler (“’Tis a Blessing to be Irish”), a monogrammed gold-plated case to hold a packet of chewing gum, a plastic wine carafe (“Vin Maison Toomey”), and seven egg cups, all with legs. That’s fourteen legs, which ought to be enough for anyone. I’ve already bought her a load of clothes – two pairs of men’s pyjamas, some flesh-pink bras and bloomers, a decent coat, and the sort of safe and ample dresses she likes to lose her body in.
For myself, I decided on a cigarette box which plays “O, Sole Mia” when you open it, a set of miniature brass cowboy boots for stamping out fag ends, and a plastic unicorn whose horn conceals a ballpoint pen. That’s just the fun stuff. Mail order is a craze here. All the girls swap catalogues or splurge their extra cash on silver-plated ice cream cornet holders, or luminous plaster models of Michaelangelo’s masterpieces. Okay, call it crap, but I quite like buying useless things, feeling I can waste my money if I want, and don’t have to rely on hard-slog competitions for a one-in-a-million chance of winning some small luxury. I know I should be saving, but what’s the point? We can’t go back to England without passports, and even if we got there, I’d no longer fit. I’d never manage on the dole – not now. Just a taste of wealth ruins you for normal life. And what about a place to live? I couldn’t just return to Jan’s, pick up our friendship where we dropped it, as if this last eleven days had never happened. And I could never ever tell her what I’ve done – the Four Girl Fantasia when I was fourth girl, and all for one five-foot-nothing Jap; my double act with Kristia when we played two dykes in bed together, to turn a client on; the Drag Party when I had to dress the guy in female gear, make him up with lipstick, eye gloss, blusher, then let him fuck me while he was still in his high heels.
Jan would be appalled, maybe never speak to me again. How could I explain that it isn’t that important? The first time is a shock, of course, seeing some big wheel arrive, and change from martinet to mincing girl; or watching an axe-faced senator romp naked in the jacuzzi with half a dozen females. But once the session’s over, you somehow block it out. There’s no real contact anyway. The sex is just a non-event, something mechanical, impersonal. I cracked just once – with client number five. He wasn’t brutish, didn’t treat me badly. He was ugly, yes, with a paunch and sweaty hands, a boil erupting on his back. That’s nothing. You get used to sweat and acne, fungus toes, psoriasis. No, it was the way he wanted me to sit on his lap, have me call him Dad.
“D … Dad.” I heard my voice crack. I had to keep on saying it all the time he screwed me: “I love you, Dad,” as he humped and heaved and groaned; “Yeah, I love you, Daddy,” as he came. There was silence after that. He didn’t move, just lay wet and hot on top of me. Dead weight. Dead father.
“Dad,” I said. Last time. My voice
didn’t break. Not then. Not until he’d gone. Then I crept down to the bathroom, meant to have a shower. I never got as far as even turning on the taps. I just lay down on the bathmat and sobbed for a whole hour or more, while my dead Dad’s living sperm seeped and dribbled out of me.
Angelique found me in the end, told me off for spoiling my complexion, taking things too personally, too hard. After that, I made sure my plastic cover didn’t slip. It envelopes me completely now, clingy like a leotard, prevents anything or anyone from touching me too closely.
I suspect the other girls have their own different versions of my clingfilm. We don’t discuss our work much. There’s far more talk about what’s for dinner or which salesman’s calling when, to flog us clothes. I’ve spent a lot on clothes – classy stuff – evening gowns and negligées, a nightie trimmed with marabou. Why not? There’s not much else to do in our free time. It’s easier for the others. Most of them have cars. We’re stuck out in the desert here, so if I want to see a shop or cinema, or get a haircut or a takeaway, I have to cadge a lift. I’m not that keen on cadging. The girls accept me more now, but there’s none I’d call a real pal, and you have to be quite careful. Adrienne made overtures, but it turns out that she’s dikey. Angelique just shrugged it off, said a lot of hookers end up gay – searching for the tenderness they never get with men. I can sympathise with that, though I’m not convinced you’d get much more with women – not these women anyway. Some are too neurotic to make any real relationships, some too hard and bitter.
The trouble is, our pasts come with us here. If a father beat us, or a husband left us, or a boss fired us for incompetence, or an undeveloped country stuck us in the paddy fields, all those fathers, spouses, bosses, countries, are still fermenting in our guts, setting off old grudges and resentments, fuelling jealousies. I know that from my own case. I can’t stand Suzie – not just because she’s tough (or got hair down to her waist), but because she’s got a doting (living) Dad. I don’t deny that many girls have made good lives here, escaped dead-end jobs or clapped-out marriages, but it’s still a ghetto, and the tensions still run high.
In one way, it’s like Beechgrove. We’re all shut up, labelled odd or tainted; shunned and feared by “normal” people, locked away from them. And we still have rules and timetables; hostesses as strict as Sister Watkins; the chores and cooking done for us, but no real choice or freedom. And whores, like mental patients, have often had bad childhoods, or come from rotten homes, or landed in some mess. Some of the girls here could do with Dr Bates. Samantha’s always gloomy, Marlee overeats, Kathy starves. They’re all terrified of age, or operations, or anything which might take away their looks. That’s why it’s crap to call the place a happy family home. Homes keep open doors, families stand by you, whether you’re plain or sick or fading. Not here. Any girl not capable of bringing in the men is instantly orphaned and disowned. They all work hard, I’ll give them that, but it’s forced labour, in a way; a job they wouldn’t do if they had some other means to make it rich, or hadn’t found themselves in debt or trouble. Oh, I know Carl assured me they all love their work and that he only takes on girls who are what he calls naturally sensual (which sounds like a commercial in itself), but that’s just one of the house-lies – like the caption “Nearest brothel to Las Vegas” (there are two nearer, one by twenty miles); or the “Most beautiful girls in the world” thing, or the “Cultured courtesans”. Okay, so Kathy plays the fiddle, and Kristia speaks four languages, but a lot of them are nothings and wouldn’t know Bartok from Boursin.
God, listen to me! What a nerve I’ve got when I’ve done zilch myself and can’t play middle C. Bitchiness is catching, I suppose. And my respect for men hasn’t exactly trebled since I’ve been here. It’s exhausting, actually, the constant pretending, the instant charm and switch-on sexiness, the perky smiles even for the sods. They’re not all sods or brutes, in fact, whatever Naima says. Nor all moneybags. Some of them are decent guys with quite humble jobs and backgrounds. There was this grocery clerk with a stutter who’d been saving up for months, and a chicken farmer who was really sweet and gentle. I tried my best for those two. And even with the piggish ones, I’m not completely charmless. I don’t want to get too bitter or too blasé, land up a Joanne.
Anyway, they’re often more pathetic than perverted – losers, sexual failures: men with pricks just one inch long, even when erect; men with money but no friends; passive types who want to play the woman; men who brag and talk big, then come in just two seconds when they’ve booked an hour or more; religious maniacs dripping shame and guilt; Roman Catholics who see all women as the Blessed Virgin Mary, but can’t wait to bugger her.
Most of them like you to respond, if only as a sop to their male pride, proof of their virility. Virility my arse. I’ve never met such duffers. Their pricks are wasted on them, half the time. Mind you, it’s easy just to kid them. A moan or two, a spasm, and they’re preening like prize bulls. There was this guy of forty-six, married twice, and who even had a mistress, yet he’d never managed to make a woman come, never actually seen a female orgasm, not once in his whole life. My fake one so excited him, he drove all the way from Vegas three more times that day. He couldn’t come himself, not after the first time, but my own panting and grimacing really turned him on. Actually, I was working out my plans for the weekend, making mental lists, panting and grimacing through “wash hair”, “buy talc for Norah”.
“Jeez!” he said. “You’re dynamite.” It always pays to please them. Repeat business is important in this game. And he tipped me fifty bucks each come.
I’ve learnt a lot in just ten days, and I’m loads more confident. The guys all seem to like me, choose me from the line-ups. Joanne was really bitchy – said they’d choose a frump or a baboon, so long as it was in its teens like I am. Okay, so some of them are hung up on their daughters. I’m more hardened to it now – braced for it, expecting it, even ready to say “Dad” again and not feel a single twinge. (I haven’t had to, actually. It’s more little girl in general – hair in plaits, bobby socks, silly lispy voice. One guy even asked me to wear braces on my teeth, though I drew the line at that.). But they’re not all cradle snatchers. Some of them treat me like their mother, need babying themselves. To others, I’m an auntie, handing out advice. I feel quite important sometimes. Other times, I’m just a bloody robot; a slave, a slag, a dustbin.
The slag picks up her pen, has a last check through the catalogue, adds a loo-roll holder with holly-printed toilet paper (a leftover from Christmas). That’s a must for Norah when she spends so much time in toilets. I’m missing her quite badly. If anyone had told me just two weeks ago that I’d be counting the hours till I caught a glimpse of Toomey, I’d have laughed right in their face. It’s true, though. Only sixteen hours to go. Thank heavens. I’ve been worrying about her. Angelique’s so … so casual, almost callous. In fact, that famous heart of gold is just a thin veneer, I’ve come to see. Easy to mop up all the credit for looking after your retarded elder brother, then pay a maid to do the donkey work. It was the same in Death Valley; she hardly saw poor George at all, left him to the ranger.
Wasn’t I as bad, though? I exchanged a dozen words with Norah that weekend – maybe less. I was so caught up in my own hurt pride and misery, nothing else existed. And even now, I’m only sort of buying her, using presents to say “sorry” and “I need you”. I do need her – even more, now I’m working here. She’s a strange rare creature like my plastic unicorn, a virgin in a world of whores.
I can’t wait until tomorrow. We’re driving back to see her, first thing in the morning, me and Angelique. God! I’ll really spoil her – food, presents, chocolates, flowers, the lot. I only hope I won’t feel quite so lousy. It’s that wretched Pill, makes me queasy all the time. My breasts are full and tender and my stomach’s swollen up – though that may be Peg’s cooking. I’m always hanging round the kitchen, drawn to Peg like all the other girls now; not just her shortcrust or her fudge-cake, but because
she’s the only one untainted by her work, the wholesome mother figure.
I wasn’t all that keen to take the Pill, especially as we take it every day here, right on through the cycle, with no break for the curse. Periods are profit-stealers, make us unavailable. Every month, for six whole years, I’ve had my period. It’s part of me, part of being normal. It will seem very odd to stop, make me feel I’m pregnant. It’s a bit like that already – morning sickness, bloated breasts.
That greasy little doctor pulled my boobs around, didn’t stop at those. I had another test today – more jabs and smears – and jokes. Carl’s fanatic about tests, especially since the AIDS plague. It would be far safer, actually (not to mention cheaper) to make the men wear Durex. Most brothels do, in fact now, but rubbers are like periods – keep the guys away, turn them off, and Carl won’t risk losing business. The girls all seem to like them, not just as a protection from disease, but a sort of psychological barrier between the clients and their cunts – no actual contact of skin and skin. Yeah, some of them are squeamish. I mean, Melanie admitted that she’ll never mouth-kiss, ever, regards it as too intimate. She’ll pee in some guy’s mouth, no problem, but if he puts his tongue in hers, God help him.
Saliva’s germy, mind you. Everything is germy – sperm, pee, cocks, mouths. It’s a pretty risky business altogether. Not just AIDS and other vile diseases, but the constant threat of violence. It’s far worse on the streets, of course, and I’ve heard some hairy stories from girls who’ve walked a beat, but even here a guy could pull a gun on you before you’ve had a chance to sound the alarm. Some girls like the risks, say it gives their life a sort of charge which they’d never get in dreary jobs like waitressing. Kathy claims that hookers are like gamblers. Both refuse to earn their living in some boring routine job; both hope to make a killing, then retire; and both accept danger, even court it.
Sin City Page 46
